


Mourning

by Nemainofthewater



Series: dragon!Jaskier [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, M/M, Post Rare Species, aren't most of mine though, geralt is granted his one blessing, he doesn't enjoy it, his presence is though, jaskier isn't physically in this, shining!verse, very much so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: He finds Jaskier’s shirt a few weeks after the dragon hunt, crumpled in one corner of his saddlebag and long-forgotten by its owner. There’s something sad about it, something that tugs at his breast as he stares at the bundle of fabric.But then the basilisk roars, and he swears and resumes digging for a potion.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: dragon!Jaskier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623493
Comments: 257
Kudos: 1976
Collections: Fan Fiction Addiction





	Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> I have 200 followers on Tumblr (what the hell) so I decided to write this to celebrate it. Thank you to everyone who's commented, left kudos, and/or read my work. You are all amazing. 
> 
> This story takes place in the Shining universe (where Jaskier is a dragon) but most of it should be intelligible? All you need to know is that Jaskier has disappeared (been kidnapped by a dragon; there's a ballad about it and everything!) and that he also left Geralt a red stone, that he kept with him always, after the dragon hunt. There are also slight spoilers for chapter 26, but nothing major.

He finds Jaskier’s shirt a few weeks after the dragon hunt, crumpled in one corner of his saddlebag and long-forgotten by its owner. There’s something sad about it, something that tugs at his breast as he stares at the bundle of fabric.

But then the basilisk roars, and he swears and resumes digging for a potion.

#

After the contract, he opens the saddlebag and pulls out the crumpled garment. It has to be Jaskier’s; there’s no other explanation. Not when it’s made out of a soft, grey silk with flowers embroidered around the wrists and neck. And when he shakes it out to better stare at it, the smell that comes wafting out-

It’s damned familiarity, it’s chamomile and brimstone, sweet music and sweeter smiles, regret and guilt all twisted up into one. It’s _Jaskier_ , no doubt about it.

He shoves it back into the bag and tries to forget.

#

Sometimes, when he’s exhausted and sat by the fire with nothing but his own thoughts and Roach’s presence-

Sometimes, when he’s weak, he lets himself take out the shirt. And run his hands over the delicate fabric. If he closes his eyes, he can almost convince himself that nothing’s changed.

#

He wraps Jaskier’s stone in his shirt. It seems like the best place to keep it. Soon he adds the bard’s notebook and charcoal pencil, then the little vials of chamomile oil that he keeps finding sequestered in random pockets. Then come the notes, scribbled on scraps of paper and colourful leaves and the occasional scrap of bright fabrics.

_I told you buying extra lye was a good idea!_ falling out of a pack of soap.

_I know, waste of money, but I couldn’t resist_ in a small bag of candied almonds.

_Try not to drown this time_ fluttering cheerily from one of his daggers.

And worst of all-

_You brute! You swore you wouldn’t look in here_ poking out of his notebook, the word ‘swore’ underlined three times in dark ink.

They’re haunting him, those damned notes. Whenever he thinks he’s found the last one another appears.

He doesn’t discard any of them. They join the bundle of _Jaskier_ , surrounded by his grey silk. And how had the bard infiltrated every aspect of his life?

#

He should never have stayed at that tavern. Because if he hadn’t- if he hadn’t heard that fucking bard sinking that fucking song- if he hadn’t known that Jaskier had been kidnapped _months_ ago, was quite possibly dead-

He would have been the happier for it.

He takes the bundle of cloth out of his bag, unwraps the shirt from around the _relics_ (not relics, belongings, possessions, things that Jaskier will come back for eventually) and-

He brings it to his face. And he breathes.

He falls asleep with Jaskier’s scent clinging to him.

#

He has to give up the stone. He has to give something to Yennefer, something that will entice her, something that will make her want to cast the locator spell on Jaskier.

The rest? The rest is _his_.

#

He tries not to take the shirt out too often. The smell is fading. Soon there will be nothing left.

#

He’s fighting a selkimore, taking his pain and frustration and guilt and turning it into something useful. Something productive. He’s too slow. Too much fighting, not enough sleep. Or food. It’s hard to eat when everything turns to ash in your mouth.

He kills it. Stumbles back to Roach and blindly grabs at something to stem the bleeding.

It’s only after he looks down that he realises that his blood is seeping into Jaskier’s shirt, is staining the grey red. He’s no poet, not like ~~Jaskier~~ some, but there’s a metaphor in that. Because everything he touches is still turning to shit.

#

He can’t get the stain out he _can’t get the stain out-_

#

The bottles of chamomile are drying up fast. He tries not to think about it as he dabs more on his wrist.

#

He fights off a group of bandits on the road to Oxenfurt, travelling to use its famous library. There’s meant to be a master who specialises in dragons there. No doubt he’ll be as useful as the three other experts he’s met with. That’s to say fucking useless.

The bandits are easy enough to take care of, but one of them tears at Roach’s saddlebags and scatters his belongings into the road.

The vials smash, and the notebook lands in a puddle, and the notes flutter away in the winds and are trampled underfoot, and the only reason the shirt doesn’t do the same is that it catches on a thorn bush.

He retrieves it as delicately as he can, ignoring the blood splattered at his feet. It’s the only salvageable thing he has left. It tears anyway.

Witchers don’t have emotions. And that’s why there aren’t tears streaming down his face.

#  
  


He buys the grey silk thread in town, forks over three or five times as much as its worth.

He spends hours by the fire, trying to keep his stitches as neat and even as possible so that he doesn’t have to undo them. He fails. The small holes dotting the shirt stare at him like an accusation.

#

“Chamomile,” Geralt repeats, trying to keep the snarl from his lips. “Not rosemary and not lavender. Chamomile.”

“I’m sorry, Master Witcher,” the shopkeeper replies, shaking his head. “Chamomile just isn’t profitable. Have you tried Novigrad-?”

He growls and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

#

There is chamomile soap in Novigrad. It doesn’t smell the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the scenes in this are inspired by a conversation I had with Kaiyo_no_hime this morning, in the comments of Shining. Thank you! You have fed me well, and I come bearing good angst for you.
> 
> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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